


Son of mine

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [19]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Curufin is not an easy father, Emotional Hurt, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Melancholy, Seasickness, but still he is a father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:59:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Curufin was a good father, and one time he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cygnete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygnete/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Son of mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445027) by [shadowoftheday654321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowoftheday654321/pseuds/shadowoftheday654321)



  1. Tyelperinquar won’t stop crying, and his wife hasn’t slept in days, her face grey with exhaustion and stress. Curufinwë finally all but locks her in their bedroom, talking to her as he leans against the door. “There’s a pot of chamomile tea on the end table, yes I know you think it’s vile, but drink some and get some sleep. Yes, I am capable of caring for the baby. I have arms, don’t I? I promise I won’t say anything scathing to him. I promise I  - didn’t I  _say_  I wouldn’t do any experiments on him? Have some faith. No. No. Drink your tea. Go to bed. No. Use the quilt my brother sent. No, I won’t change my mind. Go to sleep, you stubborn hussy.” He goes into the nursery, where Tyelperinquar is red-faced and squalling, his little feet kicking free of his blankets. Curufinwë swaddles him again and cradles him to his chest, pacing the perimeter of the room as he murmurs in a low voice, “A shouter, eh? That bodes well for you in this family. With the loudness and the red face you already have more in common with a couple of your uncles… Don’t worry, you’ll be a thousand times as clever. Don’t give me that look. I know what I’m talking about…”

* * *

  2. Tyelperinquar has broken his finger in the forge, for the third time, and Curufinwë is torn between pride and exasperation. “Child, we have all misaimed a hammer blow,” He holds up the ring finger of his right hand as an example, slightly crooked from an ill-healed bone that he concealed for too long from his father, “but three times means we must revisit technique. Yes, I know that hand is out of commission, but we will proceed with the lesson regardless. What better opportunity than now to learn how to use one hand as well as the other?”

* * *

  3. Curufinwë finds Tyelperinquar on the deck of the ship, hanging over the railing as Tyelkormo leans beside him, patting his back. Tyelkormo moves aside as Curufinwë approaches. Tyelperinquar’s hair is hanging in his face, and his skin is greenish pale as he retches. Curufinwë catches his son’s hair out of his face with swift expert hands, which he then lays cool and soothing against his son’s clammy skin. “I have brought you an herbal Morifinwë brewed,” he murmurs. “Do you think you can get it down?” “No,” chokes Tyelperinquar. “I can’t. I want to die, I want to  _die_ , I want mother, I want to go home…” “Hush.” Curufinwë holds the cup to Tyelperinquar’s lips as Tyelkormo looks away. “You are stronger than seasickness, you are stronger than grief, you are stronger than fear. This will pass.” His words are brisk, but his hands very gentle as he smooths a wayward lock of hair from Tyelperinquar’s forehead. “Drink it down, Tyelpe.”

* * *

  4. Celebrimbor’s sword is wet with blood, his breath coming fast, and his eyes are bright, almost feverish. “We drove them back from the border, father. All dead save a bare few, but Tyelkormo says Ambarussa will finish off those that remain.” Curufinwë tosses his son a cloth. “Clean your blade,” he says brusquely, but there is pride in his face as he regards his son, grown taller and broader than he, now. “You have done well. How I wish your grandfather were here to see you right now.”

* * *

  5. “Father.” Celebrimbor’s voice is rough with pain and anger. “Surely you must understand why I did what I – ” “ _Father_?” Curufin wheels on him, as behind him Celegorm tightens the saddlebags on their horses, his face studiously blank. “How dare you? You have renounced all claims to that word.” Celebrimbor stares at him, the now familiar fury and dislike twisting with anguish in his face. “I only wished – ” “I care nothing for your wishes,” says Curufin, with bitter finality. “But if you call me  _father_  again, I will make you  _bleed_.”

* * *

  6. They stand together again, and turn their faces to the distant light of Eärendil, Curufin still with some bitterness, Celebrimbor with a melancholy joy. “For all I have created,” says Celebrimbor softly, “Never will I create anything so great as that.” “For all I have created,” says Curufin gruffly, “It is of your spirit that I am proudest.”




End file.
